


Splinters

by Taleya



Category: Angel - Fandom, Thor (2011)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-17
Updated: 2012-03-17
Packaged: 2017-11-02 02:11:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/363861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taleya/pseuds/Taleya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short one-off for the Norsekink prompt: "Loki/Illyria"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Splinters

**Author's Note:**

> (Specific references to Angel eps 'Underneath' and 'Time Bomb')

He walks this place in a skin of lies. 

She smells them beneath his pelt of meat, bloodsoaked, howling things that writhe and snarl when he first comes to her, stealing on silent feet through the night. He offers no noises and she takes none in return, circling each other like stalking _djhora_ as the air between them thickens and bleeds.  


His tongue presses to his lip, scenting her in the air. She tilts her head and tastes his lies. He opens his hands in a meaningless gesture, everything and nothing all at once and she closes her own in answer.

He is lies and blood and unspoken screams splintering in frozen madness.   He is pleasing to her in a way this world is not.

  

Her human stirs and his smile is like death as he fades.  
  
  
("What happened?" her human asks later.  
  
"You made noises with your nose and called me a smurf." )  
  
  


***

  
  
This world itches on her skin. Small. Narrow. Infested with mewling things. Even the half-breed no longer amuses, his noises just _sounds_ tarnishing her ears.  
  
And _he_ is watching, always watching, she can smell him on the air. The frustration burns like ice.  
  
She finds him and she takes him and his laughter skitters like knives. His hair is black, black, black beneath her shell and they move together like a hunter's blade. His fingers dig between her ribs, stained to the wrist with her ichor. She bites down on his shoulder and breathes the winter beneath the flesh.  
  
He is a nightmare that still walks free, and his blood tastes like _home_.

 

***

  
  
  
Time is unspooling, a tangled thing. Her gut clenches at the stench of it. Leaking vessel, imperfect and cracked.  
  
He crouches beside her as she claws at the floor, fingers hovering in bare strokes above her arm. There is no sorrow in his eyes, just as there is no fear in her own. They are _gods_ and these things are mortal.  
  
Even at the end.

 

***

He comes no more once she has been broken.  
  
She expects nothing less.


End file.
